ons which will be arranged by myself and those who are entrusted
with the tactical and strategical developments of such plan of campaign
as I may decide to carry out on sea and land. And now, to put it
rudely--brutally, if you like, your price?"

Castellan took the Kaiser's hand in a strong, nervous grip, and said:

"I shall not state my price in money, your Majesty. I am not working for
money, but you will understand that I cannot convert what I have shown
you to-day into the fighting reality. Only a nation can do that. It will
cost ten millions of marks, at least, to--well, to so far develop this
experiment that no fleet save your Majesty's shall sail the seas, and
that no armies save yours shall without your consent march over the
battlefields of the world's Armageddon."

"Make it twenty millions, fifty millions," laughed the Kaiser, "and it
will be cheap at the price. What do you think, Herr Kantzler and
Feldherr?"

"Under the present circumstances of the other monarchies of Europe, your
Majesty," replied the Chancellor, "it would be cheap at a hundred
millions, especially with reference to a certain fleet, which appears to
be making the ocean its own country."

"Quite so," said the Field Marshal. "If what we have seen to-day can be
realised it would not be necessary to pump out the North Sea in order to
invade England."

"Or to get back again," laughed the Kaiser. "I think that is what your
grandfather said, didn't he?"

"Yes, your Majesty. He found eight ways of getting into England, but he
hadn't thought of one of getting out again."

Since the days of the Prophets no man had ever uttered more prophetic
words than Friedrich Helmuth von Moltke spoke then, all unconsciously.
But in the days to come they were fulfilled in such fashion that only
one man in all the world had ever dreamed of, and that was the man who
had beaten John Castellan by a yard in the swimming race for the rescue
of that American girl from drowning.

CHAPTER II

NORAH'S GOOD-BYE

The scene had shifted back from the royal city of Potsdam to the little
coast town in Connemara. John Castellan was sitting on a corner of his
big writing-table swinging his legs to and fro, and looking a little
uncomfortable. Leaning against the wall opposite the windows, with her
hands folded behind her back, was a girl of about nineteen, an almost
perfect incarnation of the Irish girl at her best. Tall, black-haired,
black-browed, grey-eyed, pe